Tessa's Kaleidoscope

This article is best enjoyed whilst listening to the song “Radio With No Sound” by The White Buffalo - https://open.spotify.com/track/4LLvC9jFFUeEluo0Lj5EGi?si=86dd8fc8cd024413

I feel extremely old.

Weirdly, I’ve been told I don’t look my age. “You look younger”, they say. This “compliment” intended to be kind is never truly comforting. At least, not to someone like me with a penchant for finding compliments tough to accept.

But I’ve always considered myself an old soul. I tend to see things from a very furrowed perspective like an elder man squinting at the sun. I enjoyed older books. I’ve always loved older music —at least, I think so. I’ve loved older clothes (I was always keen to wear my dad’s shirts when I was younger because I loved how “mature” they made me look).

Recently, however, I’ve found myself feeling lost about ageing. You might be rolling your eyes thinking “Oh, you’re just thirty-three, you’re still a kid.” But truly, hear me out. The other day, I was privileged to meet a young lady on Twitter (X) called Tessa. She’s a book lover and as a book author, I was eager to get her impression of my work.

One funny Twitter banter exchange later we shared contacts. We chatted for a while and I was drawn to her ever-excited state of mind. She got excited about books and any little thing that you’d think she shouldn’t be this excited about. She found a way to be exhilarated about life and I found it immensely moving. With every chat, I found myself mimicking her excitement.

In the few days since we met and chatted, I’ve probably used the word “yay” more than I can count. All this because she uses it so much and it felt infectious. And I know one can always assume that excitement can be faked. For a moment, I thought so too until she shared a little bit about herself with me and her story was not one where faking excitement was nearly permissible.

It was even more shocking to learn she was about a decade younger and somehow, she’d seen more of life than I could say for myself. I was jealous of her age, youth, and excitement about life. It hurt me to know there had been no point in my life when I had felt such beaming excitement. Yet I felt invigorated by her. I haven’t told her this, but I hope she reads this: In her warmth and excitement about life, I am reminded that life is nothing more than a kaleidoscope of our emotions.

Life can be beautiful colours even when it’s kicking our asses (as it often does). When it does that (kick our asses) it helps to be reminded that pain too can contain beautiful colours.

Like how grief hurts the soul but still waters the everlasting garden of affection for the loved ones lost. It’s probably the same way heartbreaks destroy us to the core of our being and yet, the prospect of new love makes our shattered core reflect the colours of hope.

I guess it’s fair to say that being as young as she is, there’s usually a lot more room for hope and seeing life in such a way. But this doesn’t even feel age-specific. To see life with rose-tinted lenses should be everyone’s prerogative. Not to be blinded to its many misfortunes, but rather to see them as colours —some warm, some harsh, but put together, capable of becoming something excitingly beautiful.

To such a prospect, no one —not even me— would be amiss to borrow Tessa’s favourite phrase and excitedly scream: “Yay!”

“Yay to life!”